Page 78 of Hate You More

The muscles in my shoulder bunch, and I almost pull my hand away. “I just went for a plain wedding band.” That looks like it came from a cereal box. “Troy wants to upgrade it—”

“I love that for you!”

“—but I like the traditional.”

“Let the man buy you a ring, Clara. Your marriage is, like, a fairy tale come true!”

Well, there is a villain. A reversal of fortunes. And the bargain we’ve struck sometimes feels like a curse. A curse of awkwardness, mostly. “It has been a bit of a whirlwind,” I say, realizing Chelsea is waiting for a response.

“Bet. One minute you’re wearing an apron, and the next, you’re married to the man of your dreams.”

“I wouldn’t have put it quite that way.” Her smile falters, and I feel like I’ve just told her Santa Claus isn’t real. “I just mean, he isn’t the man I broke up with all those years ago.”

“Because he’s an upgrade.”

“Absolutely.” The first that springs to mind is the upgrade in his body. The one that was on top of me a few short hours ago. The delicious weight of him, skin so hot to the touch.

“I texted you this morning.”

“Sorry I didn’t get back. I was kind of . . . busy.” The last word hits the air as a squeak.

Chelsea gives a hoot and actually claps her hands.

Busy freaking out, not busy getting busy. But let her think I was lying in a bed that cost more than my last six months’ rent, being pleasured by my bronzed Adonis husband until my brain short-circuited.

I guess there is a ring of truth to that, provided you ignore the way my boob was hanging out of my pajamas like a sad-faced puppy. And the way Troy recoiled when he realized who was under him.

“Spill the tea, sis.” Chelsea practically vibrates in her seat. “I want it all—the romance, the backstory. Where you went after the ceremony. Your dress ate, by the way. And your hair.” She puts her finger to her lips with a kiss.

“Thanks, Chel.”

“My student debt thanks you!” She pushes a coffee in front of me, and I smile. Chelsea is the kind of friend who remembers how you take your coffee when you can’t even remember how you take your life. “May your pillows be ever cool and fluffed,” she says, lifting her cup in a toast. “And may you never again know the disappointment of a man. Which, of course, you won’t.”

I pick up the coffee my regulatory system doesn’t need and clink the cup to hers in toast. Troy won’t disappoint me. Not if I expect the worst.

“Did you see the reel on the ’gram this morning?”

My stomach gives a roller-coaster-worthy swoop so I wrap my hands around my cup as though it might ground me. “There was a—a video? I was expecting a photo.” Like last time.

“I waited until there was something on Page Six, thank you, six thousand dollars.”

“It’s there already?”

She gives an eager nod. “It hit their page an hour ago.” While I was still in Grandma’s lawyer’s office. My lawyer’s office. “After I saw the post, I sent the reel to the Fifth Ave Files.”

“Oh.” So she saw that first post. Troy. Me. The kiss.

“Don’t worry.” She gives an impish grin. “I don’t think the catering crew will put the two together.” She means Clara, the heiress, becomes waitress, then becomes tycoon’s wife.

“It’s fine,” I reply. I’ll probably just be labeled as eccentric.

“Look, I’m just going to put this out there.” Chelsea shifts in her seat. “You don’t have to say anything, but I had to go no contact with my own family last year. I’m guessing you understand all about that.”

An ache builds at the back of my throat as I reach out, take her hand, and give it a squeeze. We get so caught up in our own dramas and traumas, we sometimes forget to look around us, where others are battling the same. “I do understand,” I answer quietly.

“Thought so.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t know, but you’re not on your own. If you need anything, you come to me.”